Max Donman pushed open the apartment door and it slammed shut behind him with a violent bang, untouched by human hands.
Ingrid jolted awake on the couch, neck snapping up from the armrest. Her smooth, bald scalp gleamed under the harsh overhead light, eyes squinting against the glare.
"Max." she rasped, trying to shake the sleep from her voice. "What happened?"
His gaze locked onto her, unblinking and flat. "Is there progress?"
She rubbed her face and pushed herself upright. "Where's Becky?"
He crossed the room in slow, deliberate strides that made the floorboards groan. "I asked you a question, Ingrid."
The fog in Ingrid's head burned away. She was wide awake now, pulse hammering. "Yes. She's transforming back."
"Good." He pivoted sharply toward the closed door of the holding room. It flew open on its own—silent, precise, hinges barely whispering like the last breath before a blade falls.
